


The Play's The Thing

by ThetaSigma



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels and Demons, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: A sequel to the very funny, very goodAmateur Dramatics, with kind permission fromHowlermonkeyAziraphale is offered a role in the next amateur play, which he accepts happily. This role, however, is far less suited for him, and Crowley does his best to try to help.Crowley changed the subject, getting away from the emotional topic. “Are the rest of the players going to be less awful?”Aziraphale frowned at him. Crowley found it adorable (he found almost everything Aziraphale did adorable, so this is not saying much). “Now, my dear, that’s uncalled for. They need practice, that’s all.”Crowley snorted. “Practice, an ability to recall lines, an ability to emote, and a completely personality replacement,” he muttered quietly. Aziraphale heard him anyway and tutted.





	The Play's The Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Howlermonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlermonkey/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Amateur Dramatics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667677) by [Howlermonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlermonkey/pseuds/Howlermonkey). 

> Many, many, many thanks to [Howlermonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlermonkey/pseuds/Howlermonkey) for letting me write a sequel to their fic. This was supposed to be a short little, "what if Aziraphale's next role was... [well, read the story to find out]" but I totally lost control and wrote pages on this. Hopefully you all (but especially Howlermonkey) enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to tell Crowley something, then shut it again. He didn’t want to seem  _ silly _ . Crowley had praised his previous performance in that AM-DRAM thing, and had gone to all seven showings, but what would he think of Aziraphale doing more of that? (After all, eternity was a very very long time, and every so often it felt good to try new things and branch out a bit. The nice thing about eternity was that he could just put an interest to the side for years or even decades, and not have missed any time with the hobby, really).

“Angel, you’ve been wanting to tell me something for days. Spit it out,” Crowley said, his yellow eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face. (By silent agreement, Crowley no longer wore sunglasses in their flat or the bookshop, if no customers were around. Aziraphale actually  _ liked _ the serpent eyes, and, more importantly, he didn’t want his demon to hide any part of himself).

“Well, you know that amateur play I was in not so long ago, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“How could I forget? Celestial harmonies had nothing on those.” Crowley snorted; he had never particularly cared for those. “Actually, you were better than Queen, too.”

“Oh, that’s probably going a bit far, my dear,” Aziraphale answered, his cheeks tinged a bit pink. “But they’ve asked me to do another play, for charity, you know, and they want to give me a bigger part. More singing, the director said.”

“You have the voice of an angel, angel. Quite literally.”

Aziraphale smiled at the pun. “Although I’m a bit worried about the acting part, actually. I’m not sure I’m quite so good at the lying necessary.”

Crowley laughed, a genuine, happy sound. “Angel. You  _ tricked Hell into thinking you were me _ . Do you really think you can’t  _ act _ ? You managed to get the Archangel Michael to  _ miracle you a towel _ , she was so shocked by your performance. You asked  _ Beelzebub for a rubber duck _ ! An amateur play is nothing compared to walking straight into Hell pretending to be a demon.”

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face. “I wasn’t thinking about that, then. All I could think was, if you had gone to Hell instead, you’d be dead now, and I’d never see you again, and there was just no room for nerves. Not when you were on the line.”

Crowley’s face softened. “I admit I had far more fun with Heaven than I should’ve, but it was always in the back of my mind that if we messed this up, you’d die. I thought you were dead after that bookshop burned, and all I knew was I would rather be permanently removed than ever feel like that again.”

They kissed softly for a moment, a gentle press of lips.

Crowley changed the subject, getting away from the emotional topic. “Are the rest of the players going to be less awful?”

Aziraphale frowned at him. Crowley found it adorable (he found almost everything Aziraphale did adorable, so this is not saying much). “Now, my dear, that’s uncalled for. They need practice, that’s all.”

Crowley snorted. “Practice, an ability to recall lines, an ability to emote, and a completely personality replacement,” he muttered quietly. Aziraphale heard him anyway and tutted.

“What play are they doing this time?” Crowley asked, rather than be dragged into a good-natured argument.

“Oh, some morality play again. Lots of heavy religious themes. Maybe this time I can tell them I’ll provide my own wings.” The twinkle in his eye told Crowley he was joking (Crowley had  _ laughed _ when he first saw Aziraphale’s “angel wings”, courtesy of a probably blind set designer. The falling apart cardboard and cotton wool wings awkward pinned to Aziraphale’s back had been nothing short of hilarious. Aziraphale could never even use his own wings: they were far too obviously  _ ethereal _ ). 

“What role do they want to give you this time?”

“They haven’t told me yet. All I know is, I’ll have more songs. Not too many more, though, the director said. He wanted my voice to punctuate it, to be a delightful interlude. Isn’t that nice?”

“He’d do a lot better if the only thing in the play was you singing,” Crowley muttered.

“Now, now, my dear.” 

Aziraphale was struck by a thought. “Would you like to be in the play, too? I’m sure the director would love to have you.”

“Angel, I’ve lowered my standards enough to attend it; I’m not putting myself through actually being  _ in _ the play.”

*** 

Several days later, Aziraphale received a text message from the director.  _ Az ur gr8 ur gonna b the demon _

It took Aziraphale several minutes to puzzle out the first half of the message. He was partly annoyed by how terrible this modern texting language was (really, was great so hard to type out? Or you’re?) but also quite excited to be learning a new variant of English. 

It was only when he reached the part about what role he was going to play that he lost any excitement. Also any annoyance. He was not feeling many emotions right now, and if he had to pick any, they’d be numb, in shock, and horrified.

Clutching his phone, he ran to where Crowley was watching TV and showed it to him. 

Crowley read it much more easily than Aziraphale had (of course he did. Texting lingo was one of his inventions, because it annoyed all the old people so much and led to a lot of tensions about proper writing, and a little tarnish went a long way nowadays). The second he read the word  _ demon _ in the text, he started laughing. Genuine, amused, happy belly laughs, a rich rumbly sound that grew into less rumbly  _ hahahas _ , and then included a couple hiccups as he  _ laughed _ .

Aziraphale was torn between annoyance -- because, really, that’s not  _ funny _ , he’s an  _ angel _ , not a demon, and he doesn’t even know where to begin the acting -- and smiling. Because he almost never heard Crowley this happy, this delighted, he almost never heard this happy laughter from Crowley. Usually he heard a derisive snort or a false chuckle, never directed at him, of course. Usually, if Crowley had been amused by something he said, he got that darling half-smile he loved so much. As annoyed as he was getting at Crowley’s laughter, Aziraphale also carefully folded the memory and the sound and the emotion and the joy into himself, to keep with himself always, that pure lovely sound. (He rather thought he knew how Crowley had felt hearing him sing, now. His demon didn’t have the voice of an angel, to be sure, but this delight transported Aziraphale, lifted him up).

Crowley was  _ still _ laughing, sliding off the couch and onto the floor, where he actually  _ rolled _ from laughing so hard. 

Annoyance finally won out, especially now that Aziraphale had so carefully tucked away everything lovely about it to be remembered. “Really, my dear, it’s not funny! I wouldn’t know how to go about being a demon!”

Crowley  _ howled _ with laughter at that, amazingly managing to actually  _ laugh harder _ than he had been up until now, his body curled into a near ball as he laughed. Tears streamed down his face from the laughter, and surely his face and abs hurt by now, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t, apparently.

“The least you could do is at least help me! How would I know how to go about being all demonic? It’s not in the guidelines for angels, you know! Archangel Gabriel didn’t exactly send us memos about ‘Be the Best Demon You Can Be!’”

Crowley was laughing so hard that the only sound remaining was his desperate attempt to draw breath so that he could laugh more. It was a strange gasping noise as he yanked in air just to let it out again in a laugh. Aziraphale figured the addition of Archangel Fucking Gabriel’s memos had made the laughter last even longer (Gabriel did in fact send memos. Dozens of them. Hundreds. There was nothing, as far as Gabriel was concerned, that wasn’t suited to a memo. Some things required memos and meetings, some things required memos and follow-ups, some things required memos and committees and plans, but everything needed at least one memo.)

Crowley finally pulled himself together enough to gasp out, “ _ You fooled Hell into thinking you were a demon _ !” Most of the words were punctuated by more laughs, and the second he had managed to finish the sentence, he devolved into pure laughter again. 

“Well, yes, my dear,” Aziraphale said pragmatically. “But I fooled them into thinking I was  _ you _ . And you have always said you weren’t really the most proper of demons anyway. I think this director wants me to be more like… Oh dear, what were their names? The pair that handed you the Antichrist. Hastur and Ligur! I don’t know how to be  _ them _ . I only know how to be  _ you _ , darling.”

Crowley’s laughs finally subsided. His abs ached and his face hurt. He looked absolutely delighted by everything still. “Oh, angel. I can show you how to be  _ properly _ demonic. It’s not like we didn’t get trainings every so often on the topic. Somehow, they kept recommending me for extra trainings, but well, I ignored those.”

***

The next time Crowley laughed even a fraction as hard was when Aziraphale showed him the intended costume. Crowley figured he should be offended by this portrayal, but honestly, it was funny. Aziraphale had random bits of fire (drawn on cardboard, of course) taped to him, and was given a pair of curly red horns. They had given him a red forked tail, which they had strapped onto him (much like a reverse strap-on dildo, something Crowley knew about and Aziraphale didn’t (not that Crowley had ever used one in any way)), and had given him a large red pitchfork. Or trident. It had three prongs, that was more a trident.

Aziraphale looked ruefully at the costume. “Well, I must say, I’ve never seen a demon who looks like this. I’ve never seen you with random bursts of fire coming from your knee or your stomach or your fingers.”

Crowley twitched the fingers on one hand and summoned hellfire, his index finger surrounded by it. With a wave, he extinguished it, before Aziraphale could so much as gasp at the danger it posed to him. “Angel, the fire was the most accurate part,” he laughed. “Anyway, only Satan gets to carry that stupid pitchfork of his everywhere.”

***

Crowley spent many hours trying to teach Aziraphale how to be a demon. It rarely went well. 

“No, angel, you need to sound  _ menacing _ . You’re a demon, you’re supposed to scare them witless. You sound like the most horrible punishment you’re going to dole out is a talking-to that gets interrupted for a cocoa break!”

Aziraphale tried again. “I am  _ very _ disappointed in you!” It wasn’t, strictly speaking, one of his lines, but Crowley was focusing on just getting Aziraphale to talk like a demon.

Crowley shuddered. “That might be the only angry line that sounds better coming from an angel than a demon. I  _ feel _ the disappointment. I don’t like it. But angel, a demon isn’t going to be  _ disappointed _ . They’re going burn something to the ground, they’re going to just  _ think _ evil, malevolent thoughts until the person is shaking without knowing why!”

“Oh, but Crowley, I can’t even bear thinking of those evil thoughts!” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands. “Oh dear, this is going to be a disaster!”

“It’s not,” Crowley said firmly. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, maybe we should try you being persuasive. I know you’ve got that down better; you did half my temptations for me.”

Aziraphale tried wheedling. “Don’t those lovely young ladies look so tempting?”

Crowley sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Angel, if I had a sex drive, it would’ve shriveled up.”

“Oh, this is hopeless!” Aziraphale cried. “How do you go around being all menacing like this?”

Crowley frowned. “You have successfully  _ been me _ . What’s the sticking point?”

“I’m not trying to be  _ you _ right now! I’m trying to be evil and malevolent and demonic, and I don’t care that it’s just pretend, I can’t do it!”

“Are you saying I’m not evil and malevolent and demonic?” Crowley asked. 

“Well, you’re demonic, but that’s by definition, mostly. You’re not very malevolent or evil. Sometimes, I think you’re better than most of Heaven,” Aziraphale added in a low voice. “After all, you were upset about the flood and the children dying more than most of the angels.”

“Not right to kill children,” Crowley said with a sniff. 

“But that’s my point! I’m supposed to be acting like a demon who would!”

“Well… I dunno, maybe work on your skulking. Skulking is demonic.”

Aziraphale was also not good at skulking. Too much pep.

***

  
  


Personally, Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale would ever be particularly convincing as a  _ proper  _ demon, at least in his own body. (Yes, yes, as Crowley pointed out several times, Aziraphale fooled hell, but Crowley was not much of a demon, and something about Aziraphale’s own body  _ exuded _ angelic glow). The harder Aziraphale tried to be properly demonic and scary, the more the angelic glow pushed through, until it was like watching a chihuahua barking at a human, utterly convinced it was the scariest biggest animal ever. And while Crowley had always found that barking chihuahua hilarious, this just made him sad. 

Even the songs didn’t quite work. It was too…  _ pure _ . 

The director apparently agreed with Crowley (who had never voiced this opinion out loud), because after several weeks of rehearsals (in which Aziraphale was still the most convincing character, frankly, and even Crowley thought his angel was terrible at this particular role), the director said, “No, no, this is just  _ not working _ . Mr Fell, I don’t know why, but you are just not  _ demonic _ here. Everything we try, you are just…  _ not demonic _ .”

Aziraphale looked crushed, and Crowley (who had been watching all the rehearsals faithfully, not wanting to miss a single note that his angel sang) seethed, ready to rip the director’s balls off and feed them to him.  _ He _ was the only one who got to think his angel wasn’t demonic enough!

Not ever particularly good at impulse control, Crowley jumped up and  _ stalked _ towards the director, angry. Right now, he was thinking evil and malevolent thoughts designed to make a person quake with fear. The director, instead of being suitably cowed, lit up in excitement. “Oh, now, that’s exactly what I’m looking for! That behaviour! Scary and foreboding and properly  _ demonic _ ,” he said gleefully. “Would you like to be my demon?”

In response, Crowley  _ hissed _ . If he was anyone’s demon, he was Aziraphale’s. 

“Or, er, the demon, rather?” the director corrected hastily. 

“And what of Mr Fell?” Crowley hissed. 

The director pondered this. “Well, our angel isn’t nearly as good as Mr Fell was last time. It’s a bit less singing, but I think he’s more suited to being angelic.” The director frowned. “Oh, drat, we’ll have to redo the costume.”

“I’ll bring my own,” Crowley said. “Something  _ actually _ demonic.”

“And I think I’ll provide my own wings this time,” Aziraphale added. “Save that poor set designer from extra work.”

He snuck a look at Crowley, more than a little delighted that Crowley was going to be in the play after all. It hadn’t been his plan at all, but he was very glad how it had worked out.

*** 

The first time Crowley unveiled his  _ properly _ demonic costume, the director disapproved loudly. Crowley was not going to be outshouted by some idiot human who had never seen an actual demon in actual demon form, and shouted back.

“No, no, no!” the director shouted. “What idiotic thing are you going for here? Are you trying to tell me the  _ eyes _ are the demonic thing? Half the audience won’t even see that! And how can you see anything out of those stupid contacts!”

“The eyesss aren’t the  _ only _ demonic thing,” Crowley shouted back, adding a hiss to the sibilant. 

“Oh, and really? The  _ hissing _ ?”

“Well, I think I know more than you about what a demon looks, sounds, and acts like!” Crowley snapped.

“Oh, he really does!” Aziraphale pitched in. “I do too, I was just not very good at being one on stage!”

“Where are the  _ horns,  _ the  _ tail _ , the  _ pitchfork _ ?” the director cried.

Crowley would have rolled his eyes if they were capable of doing that. As he wasn’t, he managed to  _ convey _ eye-rolling without actually doing so. “Not all demons have horns, almost none have tails, and only Satan carries a pitchfork, which is not the same thing as a trident! That costume was the  _ devil _ ,  ** _Satan himself_ ** , not a demon!”

“That’s true!” Aziraphale added, his contributions not particularly attended to or even noticed, but he was going to back up Crowley in whatever way possible. Especially against this director, who was being really very not nice to Crowley. 

The director snarled back, “So your demon costume is some silly contacts and a hiss?”

In response, Crowley unfurled his wings with a snap. Coal black and foreboding, and the director took a look and snapped, “Demons don’t have wings!” He somehow ignored (possibly a hint of demonic suggestion) that the wings had appeared from  _ nowhere _ .

“You  _ imbecile _ ! Demons are  _ fallen angels _ , of  _ course _ w--they have wings!”

“And what about the fire? I’m sure we could use the ones the set designer made,” the director said, feeling himself losing most of this argument. Crowley refused to take much direction, unlike Aziraphale, who had always been eager to please.

Crowley, his wings half-unfurled, his eyes alight, crossed his arms and shook his head, looking more like a petulant teenager than anything else. “I have standards, really,” he answered.

“But the demon is supposed to arrive in a burst of fire!” the director protested. “And his movements are fiery flourishes! You need the fire decorations, it wouldn’t be  _ right _ otherwise!”

“Ah, well, for that I have some stage magic,” Crowley said, his wings and arms relaxing. With a twitch, he summoned hellfire around his hand. “Suitably demonic?” he asked sardonically.

To the director, that was regular old fire, and a very good stage trick. “Oh, you’ll have to teach me that one!” he said excitedly.

“Not gonna happen.” He extinguished the fire, noting the nervousness in Aziraphale’s expression. “It’s okay, angel, I wasn’t going to get close to you with it,” he said softly. Aziraphale still wrinkled his nose at Crowley. 

“But can you  _ arrive  _ in fire?” the director persisted.

Aziraphale, who knew how Crowley reacted to certain challenges, took several large steps back. 

In answer, Crowley simply… vanished, for a brief second. So brief that the director wasn’t actually sure whether or not he’d seen Crowley vanish, because suddenly, Crowley was back, wreathed in fire, a dark shape amongst very literal hellfire. The fire died down quickly around him, an errant flame or two lighting his hair, and the end of one finger still burning. (Crowley had done that on purpose, thought it would appear to the idiotic director’s dramatic flair). The fire had touched nothing around it. There were no scorch marks anywhere, but the fire had definitely been  _ there _ . They could smell it still -- sulphurous, mostly. It clogged the throat and the nose. The heat was still present, too -- anyone who sat in the first five rows would feel rather uncomfortably hot, and anyone in the nosebleeds would still feel a sudden warmth.

“Satisfied?” Crowley asked, extinguishing the last bits of fire. 

The director only nodded.

***

It was some time later that they managed to move onto Aziraphale’s scenes. The director very specifically wanted to see Aziraphale’s costume, as the angel had been quite insistent he would provide his own this time, “to spare anyone having to make a new one so late in the game”. 

“Now, Az, show me that costume, those wings!” the director called to Aziraphale, who was offstage.

“Az?!” Aziraphale said in outrage to Crowley, who was leaning against the wall by the stage entrance. “Az?!”

Crowley snorted. “It sounds like Beelzebub trying to say  _ ass _ .”

“I don’t want to be called Az!” Aziraphale protested.

“C’mon, Az!” the director called. He was on more familiar ground with this actor, or so he thought. He remembered working with him before -- a kind, gentle man, who had been very eager and always willing to take direction. A breath of fresh air after that sulky angry one, who really did make a very good demon. 

Aziraphale unfurled his wings and walked onto the stage. In the dim light of the theatre, his wings  _ glowed _ . 

“Az, if you weren’t such a great singer, I’d have you doing set design!” the director joked. “No one’s ever gotten the wings to look so good!”

“I don’t like being called Az,” Aziraphale said primly. “Please stop.”

“Whatever you want, Fell,” the director gushed. 

But soon enough, he managed to look past the wings, and was suddenly less than pleased again. “Fell, are you wearing a  _ waistcoat _ ? That’s not angelic! And you should at least have the harp!”

Aziraphale heard muffled laughter from the wings. He ignored it. “I rather think that the waistcoat is immaterial,” he said with dignity. “It’s fashionable. What else would I wear?”

“A toga!”

“A toga?” Aziraphale repeated. “That’s not very practical. Or fashionable. I have  _ standards _ , you know. And why would I have a harp? Celestial harmonies don’t need a harp!”

“And where’s your halo?” the director demanded, ignoring Aziraphale’s protests. 

“Angels don’t have halos!” Aziraphale said immediately. “W--they wear what they like, so long as it is suitable, and they don’t have halos, and they don’t carry harps everywhere.” He mutters too quietly to be heard, “for example, I was issued a flaming sword, not some harp.” Crowley heard him anyway, the director didn’t. 

Sensing another losing battle, the director gave up. Somehow, the pleasant man had a spine of steel. 

After his run-through of his scene, Crowley called out to Aziraphale, “You were wonderful, angel!”

The director, who by now has proven himself to be a rather stupid man, said, “That’s not his name, it’s his role. He’s not calling  _ you _ demon!”

“Well, I wouldn’t like that,” Crowley replied reasonably, and somehow, that was the end of that conversation.

***

The opening night went off without a hitch. The theatre was already far more crowded than any previous play on opening night, or on any night, if you ignore the last show they put on. The advertisements had stressed that the same man would be in this one too, the one with the heavenly voice.

When Crowley first appeared on stage, in a rush of hellfire (and Aziraphale safely far out of the way), the audience gasped -- which turned into coughing and spluttering as the sulphur burned their mucousal membranes. Many fanned themselves from the sudden heat. Some, reacting to the smell of burning and the extreme heat, began to panic -- this couldn’t truly be part of the show, could it? A real fire? Was this some pyrotechnics gone wrong? 

But Crowley extinguished his arrival fire quickly, leaving only select parts slightly burning, to be more slowly extinguished as he moved, and the audience  _ delighted _ in the trick. (Because what else could it be, but very clever stage tricks? It couldn’t, for example, be real hellfire).

When Crowley hissed, when he unfurled his coal-black wings, when the audience saw -- all of them, somehow -- his serpent eyes, they felt chilled, to the bone, as if a real demon walked on that stage, not a rather good actor. 

As dramatic as Crowley’s entrance had been, so was Aziraphale’s. He actually  _ floated _ down on to the stage, his wings spread, and singing the first notes of his song.

The theatre, for the next six nights, became standing room only, all chairs folded away. The show ran for an extra week by popular request.

Following the last show, Crowley wrapped Aziraphale in his arms and murmured, “This was surprisingly fun, angel. We should find a better group next time.”

Aziraphale murmured back, “With a director who has a vision neither of us can argue and overrule? You’d hate that. I’d hate that.”

Crowley smiled and gave Aziraphale a gentle and chaste kiss. 

The director, showing something approaching intelligence for once, pieced together just why Crowley called the other ‘angel’. 

He was partly right, and partly wrong, having missed the actual angelic portion, but we’ll forgive him that. Crowley and Aziraphale certainly did, using his critique of the pet name as a joke between them for centuries to come.


End file.
